Sam noticed the ceiling handholds for the first time, a series of flanges carefully built to blend in with the architectural design. A few feet from the closest, she and Pat gave each other a boost to generate momentum.
The restaurant fell into disarray and panic. Amid the clutter of humans grappling for stability arose food, plates, glasses, and silverware. Many patrons, clearly tourists judging from their fashion choices, tried leaping from one handhold to the next, as if escaping the restaurant would secure their safety. The most desperate had no qualms about flinging others off their handholds.
The security system made no mention of the explosion or decompression at the docking quays.
“Hold fast,” Pat said. “If any of these morons come our way, be ready to kick them off course.”
“We’re under attack,” Sam said. “Aren’t we?”
“Probably. It’s possible there was a system cascade failure leading to the explosion but …”
“Anything like this ever happened before?”
“Here? No. Vasily has a perfect safety record going back at least a century. But the systems here are ancient. Perhaps …”
“Don’t spare me, Pat. We know what this is.”
“I’ll see what I can find out,” she said, tapping into her amp. “If I can lock into an internal comm system, maybe …”
Maj. Lancaster, clinging to a handhold several feet away, stifled his full-throated profanities long enough to order additional help. He called in the Scramjets patrolling the station’s perimeter.
“Full tactical, zero-g protocol. Dock at evac ports six through twelve.” When he tapped off his amp, he assured Sam and Pat help would arrive soon enough. “We’ll have teams with gravmod equipment locking down the station. In the meantime, the three of us will begin a measured retreat. We are seventy-five meters from the lift to Guard headquarters. Internal transport systems are in automatic shutdown, but I have command authority to override them. Follow my lead.”
As they gave a gentle nudge to propel themselves toward Lancaster’s position, the surrounding situation deteriorated. Shouts competed with the klaxons, and fights for control of handholds broke out. Many patrons tried to bully their way from grapple to grapple to escape the madness. An elderly couple thrown from their support barrel-rolled across the restaurant and crashed in slow-motion against the panoramic window. Sam looked back when she heard the thud. She saw outside, where the bodies – now in the dozens – drifted, helpless and hopeless.
Lancaster cleared a path for them, pushing aside guests as he claimed the authority of the Guard. Sam did not let go of Pat’s hand.
After a few minutes, Lancaster pointed to their destination, the center of five lifts, designated above in a flashing beacon: UNIFICATION GUARD PERSONNEL ONLY. Many guests had already made their way to this area of the promenade, one of four lobbies linking the restaurant to the station’s hub. Sam saw their problem: These people would flood the UG lift as soon as Lancaster opened it.
The major tapped into Station Watch and issued a new command.
“Kill the cudfrucking horns and issue a new station-wide directive.”
In seconds, the klaxons fell mute and a non-automated voice rose.
“Attention, all residents and guests. Please be advised that during this time, you must not impede the actions of Unification Guard personnel. They are attempting to secure the station and bring our crisis to a swift conclusion. Remain where you are until we have restored standard gravity.”
Lancaster tapped his amp and threw open a holocube, which displayed his identification for all to see. He motioned for Sam and Pat to follow. As they surged between handholds, none of the civilians made a move toward the central lift. However, seconds before making a downward kick to propel toward the grapples next to the lift, a new movement surprised them all.
The civilian lift closest to their target door slid open, despite Lancaster’s assurance about the transport system shutdown. A cheer arose, and guests moved toward the open door.
They were met with flash pegs.
They threw four men and women backward like projectiles as their bodies filled with holes, smacking other guests and flinging them against the panoramic glass. Globules of blood floated aloft in broken streams.
Amid shouts of terror, two figures stepped from the lift, firmly planted on the ground. They walked with methodical purpose, their gravmod boots resisting the zero-g environment.
Pat pulled Sam close.
The attackers hid inside a suit which coated their bodies in a sheen, like a custom-fitting bubble. The translucent shell disguised their faces. Sam knew they were too short and thin to be military, and nothing in her studies of UG tech showed a design like this. Guard or not, both were equipped with blast rifles.
The attackers surveyed the scene, examining the terrified – and retreating – guests. Lancaster reached for his sidearm, but when he jerked it from its pouch, a flash peg blew off his right hand. The major released a primal scream and lost grip on the handhold.
The bubble-suited assassins turned to each other and nodded. One broke away, heading down the corridor. The other raised his rifle and aimed.
Sam couldn’t see his eyes, but she felt them lay upon her.
The gunman hesitated, as if adjusting his weapon. Waiting for the kill order, perhaps?
No. Sam froze. No. Jamie wouldn’t do this. Not to me. Why?
She prepared for the death she evaded during the long night across the fold and on to Philadelphia Redux, standing in the shadow of SkyTower. She thought of Michael and prayed he would not give up without her.
Then the assassin flinched. He angled his weapon a few degrees away and fired, unleashing a steady stream of flash pegs.
A woman gagged as if choking to death.
Patricia Wylehan let go. Her body contorted and her eyes stared into oblivion as she hurled backward, driven by the projectiles that tore open her chest.
As reality consumed Sam, she screamed for her Chief and lost her grip on the handhold. Her eyes clouded as the sobs came. She couldn’t absorb seeing Pat’s lifeless floating body, which bounded against the panorama and left behind a painted mass of red globules, and still understand everything else going on around her.
Other than Michael, no one championed her like Pat. No one believed more in her ability to take on the Chancellory elite, or that she was the best of the Pynn descendancy to come along in generations. Sam still lived because of a mercenary who found a reason to take a stand.
For a moment, Sam surrendered. She gave in to the fraud she often thought herself to be, the Chancellor who could never live up to her father’s iron-fist image of a warrior-politician. She was nothing special, floating as helplessly as these other people – Chancellors or colonists – who did not possess her alleged status. Pat would tell her to fight back, to firm her gut and respond in kind. Michael would say she was going soft for a Chancellor who once ran around in the Alabama woods as a girl, chasing and assassinating human prey.
The anger rose in her gut, but all she could do was watch. She rolled over after bumping into another desperate civilian and saw the assassin moving off down the promenade. His accomplice, a good fifty meters away, aimed a weapon toward the panorama. She realized, too late, he was not carrying a blast rifle.
The weapon’s pulse created spatial disruptions, blurring the physical space between the terrorist and the glass. The assassin appeared oblivious to the chaos, as horrified guests raced quickly from grapple to grapple to escape the inevitable. Flash pegs tore apart those who threw themselves toward the assassin to stop his madness.
On the far side of the promenade, Lancaster held his bloodied right stump against his chest while shouting new commands to the Station Watch. Even amid the cacophony, Sam understood every word.
“Decompression imminent. Engage segmented seals. … I don’t care how long it’s been. Engage the cudfrucking seals, or you will have another thousand deaths on your hands.”
Alth
ough this was Sam’s first off-world experience, she assumed the most terrifying sound in space must be the cracking of glass. The panorama beyond the lobby was splintering. A blast rifle continued to clear any threat to the attackers.
A new rumble and a gust of steam entered the insanity. Seconds afterward, huge metal doors emerged from the belly of the structure and slid outward. They segmented the promenade, with doors closing off the lobby area on both ends. Guests bounded off them, except for one who found herself caught between the door and the panorama locking ports. The door snapped her body in half, and she fell end-over-end in a chasing field of globules.
Sam caught Lancaster’s eyes. She saw his terror. He wasn’t prepared, never even considered the possibility for infiltration. He told her the Guard didn’t know how to fight these terrorists. He was as useless in this fight as she was.
A minute later, the station shook. Sam knew what happened but didn’t want to see. Yet her body was contorted to view it all.
After the panorama on the other side of the seal exploded, hundreds of bodies joined the shards of foot-thick, plated glass outside the station. They performed a dance of death unlike anything she might have imagined, the bodies flipping, rolling, and bouncing off each other as they caught the sunlight then vanished into the darkness of space, nothing to slow their march.
The klaxons returned, as did another automated message about a decompression emergency. As Sam watched the last of the civilians dissolve into the starfield, two other humans appeared outside the station, their motion more controlled.
The assassins in bubble suits held hands. The one who shattered the glass used his weapon in short, forward bursts to slow their momentum.
In the next instant, space did a double take. The stars appeared to fold in on top of each other. A single blast of thunder shook the station. A white flash followed. When it disappeared, a ship hovered in its place, in direct line with the approaching attackers.
The transport was small and cylindrical, perhaps fifty percent larger than a Scramjet, with no visible markings. A door on the bulkhead pixelated and opened. Ten seconds later, the attackers vanished inside.
The transport fired its system engines. Flash and thunder followed. Space buckled again as the ship vanished.
Sam didn’t understand what she witnessed, but she damn well knew who was responsible.
Why didn’t I kill you?
Soon, the klaxons fell mute.
Twenty minutes later, standard gravity returned.
Sam stayed beside Pat’s body until the recovery crews arrived.
8
Moss Compound, Medical Annex
Boston Prefecture
M ICHAEL REFUSED TO PLAY ALONG AS Finnegan Moss’s personal physician told jokes during his analysis. Shirtless, Michael allowed the doctor to inject him with holographic tools designed to stabilize and repair his wounds. His ribs responded to laughter with daggers of pain. At one point, the doctor – perhaps a year older than Michael – proclaimed himself a huge fan. Saw Michael’s circastream act four times, disappointed he couldn’t afford seats at Entilles, and on and on. He tested his own Chancellor jokes.
“Dude,” Michael said, trying to end the agony, “your boss could walk in any second. I don’t recommend you saying that shit around here. Get my speed?”
Michael didn’t want to demean a fan – Solomon or Chancellor – but he needed this night to be over. He’d killed three people, been shot three times, and almost died for the umpteenth time since first hearing the word Chancellor. He needed answers for what happened at Entilles, and something to take the damn edge off. Then to bed.
The doctor directed him to a Recon tube and programmed him for a slipshirt, a black medical fabric that cushioned external wounds while passing for casual evening wear. When Rikard showed up to escort him to Moss, Michael realized his shirt did not bear the Solomon tri-crest. He had not ventured into public without the branding since the day he crossed the fold. However, no one seemed to mind when he and Rikard entered the main estate house and joined a crowd in the second-floor observatory.
The spectacular backdrop – glass roof beneath a starry sky, multidimensional art from the colonies lining the walls, an EarthIn holographic terrarium, and onward – seemed par for the course. He wondered whether Chancellors understood “slumming it.” Off in the corner, a few security guards hovered. In the center gallery, reclining casually on sectionals plus pillows large enough for six, elements of the Solomon equity movement mingled with the Chancellory.
“Not how I figured this night to go,” Michael whispered.
“You’re the man of the hour,” Rikard said. “Enjoy the moment.”
The room launched into polite applause. He smiled but leaned close to Rikard. “Seriously? I just killed a bunch of people.”
“Yes,” Rikard smiled, “you most certainly did.”
The other members of Rikard’s team greeted him, all with drinks in their hands. He recognized each – including the opera singer who saved him with a knife through the head chef’s heart. The Sanctum reps in Moss’s company came forward and offered hugs; his first ever from Chancellors.
Finnegan Moss, however, remained seated, the same cool customer Michael met in the Entilles theater. He hung a casual smile as he nursed a tall liquor in one hand and pulled on a red cylindrical poltash pipe with the other. He blew sweet-smelling rings. Michael recognized the type: Chill, saving the best for last, allowing the children to finish their business first. Reminding everybody who’s the badass.
A Chancellor he didn’t recognize broke up the good tidings to offer Michael his hand. Fortysomething, shoulder-length red hair, scar along his left chin. Jawline was clear: A former peacekeeper.
“Michael Cooper, my name is David Ellstrom. I am Chief of Staff for Mr. Moss. On behalf of his Presidium, we owe you a debt. Mr. Moss has gone through many attempts on his life, but this is the first time we did not anticipate the enemy’s strategy. Your quick thinking, inventive technique, and sacrifice for a man you did not know is more than admirable. Many of us in this room would be dead if not for you.”
Another round of applause followed. Michael offered a sheepish smile and stumbled. “I don’t know what to say. Reckon we’re all just trying to stay alive. Am I right?”
They chuckled. Did they think the question was a call-back to his comedy act’s signature punch line?
“Might we offer you any refreshment or …?”
Before Ellstrom finished the question, Michael pointed to Moss.
“Actually, I’d really love a pipe if you got one to spare.”
Ellstrom motioned to a Solomon servant Michael didn’t see when he entered. The woman offered a tray of liquors and pipes. Michael took one of each and looked for a place to sit as the rest of the crowd did likewise.
He tapped the black pipe until it glowed. The first inhale of poltash felt more satisfying than any meds. He could throw back the liquor, finish the pipe, and sleep right there.
Awkward silence fell as more pipes lit and glasses tinkled.
His eyes darted between the singer and the assassins’ target. When he lingered on the singer, she spoke.
“Maya Fontaine,” she said. “I would have introduced myself after you came off stage, but you were in such a hurry.”
He took a puff and spewed a long dart of smoke. To Moss he said, “I hope you gave her the proper credit. She finished off the head douchebag. Saved my life.”
“Oh, yes,” Moss said. “Miss Fontaine and I spoke at length. She’s a fascinating woman. Not much of a singer, but I’m sure her true ambitions lie elsewhere.” They shared a knowing smile. She seemed indifferent to the insult. “In fact, this entire team of Solomons is fascinating. Your movement is willing to push a dangerous edge in the service of your agenda. Yes?”
Michael turned to Rikard and Matthias, who sat together, hands joined. They nodded to Michael, as if expecting him to respond, but Moss did him a solid.
“Mr. Cooper, while yo
u have been recovering, your associates and I have been reviewing certain logistical matters. We have agreed to keep Solomon involvement in the execution and prevention of the attack from public view. My security apparatus cleared Entilles of most of the bodies before DayWatch investigators arrived and secured the sight of the Lutrium Burst. All other histories are being constructed.”
Michael choked on the smoke. “What’s a Lutrium Burst? What do you mean by histories being constructed?”
“Ah. I see you weren’t told. Lutrium is an airborne toxin. Kills on contact. The assassins propelled an MR40 casing through the floor and ignited the Lutrium in my landing about three seconds after we vacated on your warning. As for the histories, not for you to worry. We control the narrative.”
Michael’s team nodded in tacit agreement.
“So, basically, you’re sweeping this shit away?”
“An odd analogy,” Moss smiled, “but yes. In return, I have agreed to consider the Solomon platform for universal equity. This is what your colleagues hoped to achieve. Yes?”
He couldn’t argue the point but also didn’t think four people needed to die to reach this position.
“Sure. Yeah. You’re right, Mr. Moss. We need help from Chancellors like you.”
Moss pulled slow on his pipe and blew smoke through his nose. “We’ve all experienced a difficult night. Michael, I realize you’ve been through the worst of it, but if you can tolerate me a while longer, perhaps we could talk alone? The view from the balcony is exquisite. Yes?”
His team’s body language was clear: Go. Do. Make a final pitch.
The Impossible Future: Complete set Page 67